There’s a young woman circling me. I can catch brief glimpses of her, as if shadows moving behind trees. Occasionally I can hear her whispered voice, but it may be the wind.
I’ve seen her walking above the sea alone, face lifted to the salt air. I know she feels cleansed, but I also see how gaunt she is. She’s simply escaped the mountains, but not whatever it is that haunts her.
There’s an old woman waiting for her. A grandmother, or maybe great-grandmother, in her end days. Some say she’s lost her mind, but what some see as insanity others see as vision, finally clear.
It’s like writing. This young woman circling me, creeping up on me, whispering to me, isn’t real. Or at least not yet. But she wants me to tell her story because she can’t. And there’s some mystery there, on the wild edges of the North Sea, where she now walks.
Some of you nod, recognizing the writing process, understanding that voice in the place where stories begin.
Others, who don’t understand the writing process, might hear this and think it strange, or wonder about someone who says they hear voices in their head.
But this…this is how a story begins.
She’s too shy yet. She doesn’t trust me fully yet. She’s not ready for the story to come to me yet.
But she’s there, working her courage up to come fully forward, to step through the door.
And this…this is how her story begins.